


Carry You Home

by ohmyfae



Series: Dads of the Year [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Dadfic, M/M, Some smut but mostly fluff, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-09-28 04:45:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10072439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmyfae/pseuds/ohmyfae
Summary: Clarus claims that he can handle raising an infant Gladio on his own. Regis is certain that he no longer feels the bruise of an empty house without Aulea. They're both wrong.A little story about Clarus and Regis finding love, raising kids, and dealing with the unexpected news that Noctis may be the chosen king of legend.Based on a prompt for thekinkmeme!





	1. Chapter 1

“ _Noctis Lucis Caelum,_ if you don’t come down from there this _instant,_ I will _personally_ ship you off to Niflheim!”

“You can’t _do_ that, Dad!”

King Regis stood barefoot on the grassy lawn of the royal manor, dressed only in a blue silk dressing gown and outrage. His hair was unkempt and curling up at the sides, his eyes were red with lack of sleep, and he was glaring up at a small, swaying figure on the roof with the same look he reserved for traitors and enemy ambassadors. 

Prince Noctis wrapped his arms around a chimney and tried to look brave. As a skinny twelve-year-old staring down a king with an arsenal of ancient weapons at his disposal, the result looked more pained than defiant, but he was making a solid effort.

At Regis’ side, Gladio lifted a hand to measure the distance between the third floor attics and the roof.

“I could probably climb up there and get him, Dad,” he said. “Just give me ten minutes and some rope, and I can—“

“Gladiolus.” Gladio backed up a step. Clearly, the radius of parental disapproval was wider than he’d initially considered. “I appreciate the thought, but I am not fetching _two_ of my sons down from the roof tonight.”

“I’m not going!” Noct shouted. “You can’t _make_ me!”

“It’s just a stupid _ball,_ Noct!” Gladio’s voice boomed and cracked in the foggy night air. “Ain’t no one's gonna dance with you anyways!”

“ _Gladiolus!_ ” 

“Sorry, Dad.”

“What’s this?” Clarus emerged from the front door, carrying a groggy Iris on his back. He wore an old flannel shirt and boxers, which made Gladio cough into his hands and look away, but Regis didn’t comment. “Boy on the roof again?”

“Soon to be _exiled_ boy,” Regis said. “I’m giving you to the count of three, Noctis! One!”

Clarus hefted Iris up a little as she started to slip down his back, and she wrapped her arms tight around his neck. “You know,” he told Regis. “It was _your_ idea to have children in the first place.”

“Lies and slander, love,” Regis said. He summoned a knife in his hand. “Two!”

“Dad’s gonna warp!” Gladio shouted. Noct backed around the chimney, hiding himself from view.

“ _You know how it goes, Clarus,_ ” the older man said, in a sing-song voice. “ _One for me, one for you, one more for good measure._ ”

“Thin ice, my love.” Regis hefted the knife in his hand with a grimace. “Three!” 

Gladio gave a shout of delight as the knife went flying, and Regis disappeared in a flash of blue and white light. He reappeared on the roof, one hand on the hilt as the knife jammed into a windowpane, and Prince Noctis screamed with all the terror of a boy with three years of dishwashing duty in his immediate future.

 

\---

 

**Insomnia, Fourteen Years Prior:**

Clarus Amicitia was late. 

Regis knew this shouldn’t _technically_ be a cause for concern. Traffic outside of the Citadel was often more than hazardous this early in the morning, though Regis was aware of this through hearsay more than actual experience. His own manor, passed down through his family for the past two centuries, lay just to the side of the Citadel, well within the gates that separated the palace from the rest of the city. 

Still, the last time Clarus was late to his duties had been so long ago that the reason was lost, and Regis couldn’t help the twist of vexation in his chest. When the door to his private offices finally opened, he looked up with an almost stern expression.

“My apologies, Your Majesty,” Clarus said, in the stiff, formal voice he always used when he knew he was in for a lecture. 

Regis’ expression fell.

“Clarus,” he said, in a tight voice. “There’s a child on your back.”

“Da!” shouted nine-month-old Gladiolus, wriggling in the carrier strapped around Clarus’ shoulders. Clarus sighed.

“Yes, Your Majesty. The daycare was closed, and my mother wouldn’t—“

“I thought you had a nanny?” Regis asked. Gladio was staring at him, quietly gnawing on a moogle toy strapped to the carrier. “That nice girl, the one with the braids?”

“Visiting her mother,” Clarus said. “Regis. It’s a paper-shuffling day, and you know Gladio’s no trouble. Just for today, please.”

Regis looked into his shield’s face, and saw the hard lines of exhaustion there, the baggy grey of sleeplessness. “Certainly,” he said, at last. “Pull up a chair. Hello, Gladio.” Gladio waved, still chewing on the toy, and kicked his feet insistently. Clarus got the point and crouched down, unhitching the carrier, and lifted his son to the floor.

What followed was the most unproductive day in Regis’ memory.

First, he learned that Gladio had mastered the art of the break-neck hobble since Regis had last visited Clarus at home. The boy staggered about the room under Regis and Clarus’ careful watch, gently bouncing off of walls, running into desks and chairs face-first, and stumbling over his own shoes. Every time he fell, Regis braced himself for a scream of pain, but Gladio simply lay there for a moment, grim and thoughtful, before picking himself up and tottering forward again.

Second, he learned that Clarus knew how to sing. Oh, they’d shared one or two horrifying renditions of top forty hits a few years back, when the two of them, Weskham, Cid, and Cor were shipped out to fight the Empire. But that had been a drunken sort of extended shout, not the soft, low baritone that sang of baby whales and dolphins while Gladio refused most of what Clarus kept trying to spoon into his mouth. Regis stared at his friend for a full five minutes, after, and only a pointedly bewildered look reminded him that he had a lunch of his own to inhale. 

Then there was the afternoon storytime incident.

“Sorry, Reg,” Clarus said, when Gladio tugged at Regis’ pant leg for the seventh time. “He wants you to read something.”

Regis glared at his shield and gestured to his desk. “I have a report on crop rotation,” he said, in a dry voice.

“That’ll work,” said Clarus, without looking up. “He just wants to hear your voice for a while.”

Regis lifted Gladio to his lap, glanced at Clarus one more time just to be sure, and flipped open the report to the spot his advisor had bookmarked. “Wheat monocultures,” he said, and Gladio’s eyes widened. “Part A-3, Section Twelve.”

By three o’ clock, it was obvious that neither Gladio nor Clarus were going to last. Gladio was cranky and tired, yelling and babbling in turns, and at one point took up residence under Regis’ chair and whimpered every time he tried to stand. Finally, Regis set down his files with a smack that brought Clarus jerking to attention.

“Let’s end here for the day,” Regis said, and the relief in Clarus’ eyes was palpable. “Clarus, you look ready to expire. You’d tell me if things were… un… well, at home?”

Clarus’ lips twitched. “I’m raising a nine-month-old on my own, Regis,” he said. “I imagine _well_ will happen when he’s twenty-three.”

Regis sighed. “And no news from—“

Clarus’ face might as well have turned to stone. “What do you think?”

Regis bit down a sharp retort. Gladiolus’ mother had given custody to Clarus several months ago, when she’d announced that she had a _revelation_ that Clarus was a overly-principled bore who would never love her as much as _you love your gods-curst king!_ The resulting argument had been disastrous, and lasted for weeks. Regis had insisted on Clarus and Gladio staying with him while the divorce was ratified and their house cleaned out of everything belonging to Gladio’s mother, and that had only confirmed in her mind where Clarus’ loyalties lay.

“I’d expect her to at least inquire after Gladio,” Regis said, as Clarus held the boy against his shoulder. Clarus shrugged. 

“I don’t. She was a lovely girl, don’t get me wrong, but…” He sighed. “I think it scared her. This.” He gestured to himself, Gladio, and Regis. “Us.”

“You’re a sensible man,” Regis said, lifting his hand to pet Gladio’s hair. The boy immediately pulled at Regis’ sleeve, gnawing at it. “But you always were a fool for love.”

Clarus paused for a moment, and Regis knit his brows. Had he crossed a line? Clarus was one of Regis’ oldest friends: They’d fought the Empire together, fought _each other,_ stood up to his father when Regis wished to make his engagement to Aulea official. And after Aulea’s accident, when Regis had quietly and methodically fallen into a spiral that none of his aides or advisors could recognize, Clarus was the one who broke down the door of the manor and urged Regis out of bed. As far as he was aware, there should be no more lines _to_ cross. 

“I should head home,” he said, reluctantly. “It’s an early morning at the Council tomorrow.”

“Of course,” said Clarus. His expression didn’t change from that odd, almost fearful look, and he gently tugged Regis’ sleeve from Gladiolus’ mouth. “But I have a cup of jasmine tea at the house with your name on it, if you’d like.”

His hand was warm on Regis’ wrist, and something of a fear slipped into the king’s heart as well. There it was: A line he hadn’t recognized before, a barrier between them that was crumbling even as he struggled to see it for what it was. If Regis lingered, if he spent one second longer staring into Clarus’ eyes (grey, almost, like the rush of a storm over the water), he would be overcome.

“I fear I must decline,” he said, and stepped away. 

“Da,” Gladio said, imperiously. He slapped his hands on Clarus’ shoulder, but he was looking at Regis. 

For the first time in years, all of Regis’ training in diplomacy, social graces, and the expectations of his office failed him. He gave Clarus and Gladiolus a shaky smile, wrenched his hand from his friend’s grasp, and fled.

By the time he finally made it home, he had regained his equilibrium. Regis entered the front hall of the royal manor with his back straight and his mind clear, smiling a farewell to the butler as the man retired for the night. He draped his jacket over a hook on the wall, stepped out of his shoes, and lifted a mug of tea from the tray at the end of the foyer. He carried it up to his study, where he set it five inches to the left of a statue of a small fox. His tie was clipped to a rack in the closet between his study and bedroom, as was his belt. He undressed with perfect efficiency, slipped on a gold dressing gown with white herons embroidered on the sleeves, and sat at his desk with a book. Every now and then, he’d have a sip of his tea.

King Regis sat alone in the warm light of his empty manor, and let the silence consume him.


	2. Chapter 2

“This isn’t what you want, Clarus,” Selene Amicitia had said six months before, when she bent over her husband in the dim light of their bedroom. Her long red hair twisted and curled on Clarus’ shoulders, and the freckles on her chest and cheeks were pinpricks against her dark skin. She held Clarus’ calloused fingers to her breastbone, guiding it down the soft curve of her belly. “How long were you going to let me believe it?”

“I _do_ love you,” Clarus had told her, in a soft, cracking voice. She released his hand, and it dropped to his side on the bedcovers. 

“Tell that to your king,” she’d said, and rolled off his legs, pressing her back to his side. Clarus knew he should have protested, pleaded, assured her that he held nothing for his king but the duty required of him. Instead, he lay back in silence, and felt the bitterness in his wife’s choking laugh seep into the pores of his skin. 

Now, in the cluttered mess that was his bedroom, Clarus scrambled for his phone. It rattled and hummed on the bedside table, and he flipped it open without bothering to look at the ID. 

“Amicitia.”

“Clarus.” He jerked to full alertness at the sound of Regis’ voice. “I may be in need of your assistance.”

 _Damn._ “Where are you? Are you safe?”

“Safe? Oh, certainly,” Regis said. “I simply thought it might be prudent to inform you that there’s a man in my hydrangeas.” The king spoke in the same conversational tone one might use to remark on the weather. There was a dry rustling sound, and the creak of branches. Clarus’ body reacted on instinct. He vaulted out of bed, pulled open his closet and dug out a simple set of Crownsguard fatigues, throwing them on over his night-clothes.

“Is he a threat?” Clarus asked, staggering into the wall. “Is he _active,_ Your Majesty?”

“I believe the blade of my spear through his lungs may have slowed him down somewhat.” Regis’ voice was thick with sarcasm, but Clarus recognized the sardonic tone as one he always used when he was high on adrenaline, the rush of blood in his body fighting with his iron-willed control. “There are no written orders on his person, but his sword is very well made.” There was a pause, and Clarus could almost _hear_ the slow smile ghosting behind Regis’ straight-lipped mask. “I may have to add it to my armiger.”

“Not before it’s tested for poison, you won’t,” Clarus said. He pounded down the stairs to wake Jared. “Stay _indoors,_ Your Majesty. Where were your guards when this was going down?”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. “Regis. Where were your _guards?_ ”

“I’ll see you at the manor, I suppose,” Regis said, and the line went dead. Clarus cursed.

Jared, in his infinite mercy and patience, was more than happy to keep an eye on Gladio while Clarus was out. Clarus contacted Cor, who spread alarm and despondency further down the chain of command so that Clarus didn’t have to, and he climbed into his car and gunned the accelerator, swallowing down the taste of metal in his mouth.

When he arrived at the manor, Cor was already there, directing a number of Crownsguard to take up position around the perimeter. Cor was barely out of his teens, still stocky and awkward with too-long hair and spots on his cheek, but he barked orders like a man who expected his command to go unquestioned. He straightened to attention when Clarus made his way down the front path, and his face was smoothed to perfect stillness.

“Report, Leonis,” Clarus said.

“Niflheim spec-ops,” said Cor. “Not an MT—One of their human soldiers. No identifying papers, and his fingerprints have been burned. Forensics are drawing up a detailed report of their findings now, and I have repositioned troops to their guard posts.”

“ _Re_ positioned?” Clarus asked. He struggled to keep the anger from his voice. “What were the guards doing, abandoning their posts at this time of night?”

Cor paused, and his gaze slipped to his shoes—an old habit Clarus thought he’d kicked out of him years ago. “Following orders, sir.”

“Whose?” Clarus asked. “Those were _my_ men I assigned to the King’s defense.”

Cor let out a breathy sound, half-cough, half-sigh, and his shoulders rolled back. “You were overruled, sir.”

“Over…” Clarus looked to the door of the manor and scowled. “Regis.”

“Can’t say, sir,” Cor said, desperately. 

“I’m sure you can’t,” Clarus said, and clapped a hand on Cor’s shoulder. “I’ll leave you to your work.”

“Sir.” Relief poured off of Cor like steam, and the younger man turned on his heel, striding towards the dent in the hydrangeas where the unlucky soldier had been slain. Clarus watched for a moment, then yanked open the front door of the manor and slammed it shut behind him.

Regis stared at him from his spot in the kitchen, one hand wrapped around a mug of tea.

“Shoes,” the king said, as Clarus stepped over the dip in the foyer. Clarus cursed under his breath and slipped off his boots. 

“Why were your guards not at their assigned posts, Regis?” he asked. Regis raised an eyebrow.

“I’m doing well, thank you for your concern.”

“ _Regis._ ”

“I prefer my privacy, Clarus,” Regis said, in a clipped voice. 

“Over your life?”

Regis took a long draft of his tea and set the mug on the counter. Clarus took a moment to glance around the wide entranceway. The manor looked like a _museum._ There were no books out of place, no dossiers spread out on coffee tables or countertops, no tracks where feet pounded out a steady routine. Even the walls were bare of many of the portraits and paintings Clarus had seen not four months past, during his visit with Gladio.

When he spotted the photo frame swiveled back-to-front on the mantelpiece, Clarus felt a bubble of dread rise to his throat. He flipped it around. 

Aulea’s bright face beamed up at him, round and wide-eyed and flanked by a mass of curls.

“Regis,” he said, in a careful voice. “How long has this been going on?”

“My living here?” Regis drawled. “Oh, years, I’m sure.”

Clarus shot him a dark look and turned, heading up the stairs to Regis’ chambers. Regis let out a cry of protest and followed him.

When other men self-destructed, they let themselves go. They ignored their duties, dragged themselves out of bed on a good day, and let minor tasks pile up until they became insurmountable challenges. Regis, on the other hand, micro-managed. He organized pencils and weapon racks, created more and more exacting rituals and routines, and sank into self-imposed exile with such grace and seamless calculation that no one caught on until it was far too late. The last time this happened, Clarus had found Regis shaking in his bed, unable to make it to the door without finding the tie clasp that should have been clipped to a strap in his dresser. 

Sure enough, all the signs were there, down to the too-tight knots on the curtains of Regis’ bed. 

“Clarus, this is a breach of privacy—“ Regis began, and Clarus spun to face him. 

“We shared a tent for four years, Reg, don’t give me that. When were you going to tell me?”

Regis’ hands went to the belt of his dressing gown, tugging it tighter around his narrow waist. He was thinner, without his tailored suits to hide behind: His fine cheekbones were sharp under defiant eyes, and Clarus could see the faint lines of worry creasing his mouth. 

“I like the _quiet_.” 

“You hate it,” Clarus said, and stepped closer. He rocked back on his heels rather than close the distance in full. “It’s just easier this way.”

“I hardly—“

“Am I wrong?”

He waited a full minute. Regis turned from him, hand to his belt, his fine black hair almost blue in the haze of the Crownsguard searchlights. Clarus suppressed a growl in the back of his throat and padded to the door.

“Clarus.”

Part of him hated this: The almost inherent call to obey, the unknowing grip that Regis had on the core of him that forced him to turn. He wondered how much of this was tied to his duty to the King as his shield, and how much lay in the tangle of yearning that coiled below, the same disastrous mess that his wife had seen so clearly. It was the cause of hesitation in too many failed reconciliations, the hitch in his breath that came at the heels of a sigh. 

Regis stood before him, his sunset-colored dressing gown hanging open at his shoulders. The plane of his chest was shadowed in the folds of the fabric, his muscles taut, the curve of his neck impossibly long in the dark. An offering.

“I’m _tired,_ Clarus,” Regis said. 

“I know.”

The king’s gaze was unbending as steel. “Then decide.”

There was no hesitation this time. Clarus had made this decision years ago. He went to his king, knelt at his feet, and felt Regis’ warm, long fingers glide down the nape of his neck as though they’d always belonged there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't going to be a slow burn, not with these two.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, smut happened. And then fluff. Tried to keep the smut kind of not explicit? If that makes sense?  
> 

“Clarus.”

Clarus braced his arms on either side of Regis’ thighs and fixed him with a glassy-eyed stare. He looked ragged in the dark of the half-drawn curtains, which had been pulled loose in their ungainly stumble to the bed. Regis’ lips thinned and he pushed down on his Shield's broad shoulders, eliciting a low moan that pressed against the heat of him, making his languid muscles draw tense. 

“You can see me fine from there,” he said. Clarus conceded the point, dragging his tongue up to the coarse hair _just_ above where he must have _known_ Regis was most sensitive. The younger man entertained the possibility that Clarus was trying to break his resolve. Regis’ approach to pleasure was direct and exacting, but his shield, clearly, liked to take his time. This would be acceptable if it weren’t so _maddening,_ if Regis’ nerves weren’t already afire with the death of the soldier at his doors, and the breach of the last line of defense between himself and what had turned out to be _years_ of wanting. Every minute brought new revelations, memories gone foreign with the truth laid bare between them. 

Regis bucked into Clarus’ mouth, and his old friend ( _lover?_ ) held him down on the bed. He nearly _whined,_ but held it in with a monumental force of will.

“Ten guards,” he said, at last. Clarus’ gaze flicked up to his. “Around the manor. I’ll accept ten.”

Clarus’ voice was low, and the hum of it sent a shudder through Regis’ skin. “Sixteen.”

“Eleven.”

Two fingers crooked below the rough press of his Shield’s tongue, and Regis slammed his hands back against the headboard. “Sixteen,” Clarus said, rising on an elbow. “If all three of us are to be here, sixteen.”

“All three?”

Regis’ mind went blank as he struggled to register the implications of this, and Clarus took advantage of his momentary distraction to _twist_ his fingers _just_ where Regis wanted them in the first place, and gods, _gods,_ he…

Regis dragged himself up by Clarus’ shoulders and kissed him through the first wave of his release, breaking free to rest his forehead on the larger man’s shoulder. When he came down from the last of it, _eons_ later, he’d clawed lines down Clarus’ back and along his neck, and Clarus was whispering to him, soft and insistent and barely more than a brush of breath against his skin. 

“What were we…” Regis ran a hand up the back of the other man’s neck, pulling him down. “Ah. The security detail.”

“Really, Regis? After all this, you’re still—“

“Sixteen,” Regis said, and felt Clarus’ lips curve in a smile. “Sixteen is fine.”

 

\---

 

The integration of Clarus’ family into Regis’ life passed with little fanfare. It was as though the royal manor itself had breathed _in,_ dragging Gladio, Clarus, and a metric ton of cloth nappies into its embrace. The living room sprouted a new weapon’s rack, which was firmly enclosed in childproof glass smeared with small handprints. New paintings were affixed to the walls, and the old, unused nursery was aired out and filled with soft wooly lambs and watercolor flowers that Gladio’s mother had painted. Gladio ignored all of this in favor of the giant toy Citadel owned by Regis’ great-grandmother, and attempted to sleep in the first floor of the model for nearly a week. 

At first, Clarus took to apologizing every time Gladio’s insistent cries woke them in the early morning. He tried to ease out of bed without disrupting Regis, and rushed Gladio to quiet corners of the manor to calm him down. After three days of this, he woke to the unearthly howl that was his son in need of a diaper change, and lifted an arm that felt weighted by lead. He rolled onto his side and blinked into the dark. Something was off. 

Regis was gone.

“Oh, hells, Reg, I’m sorry,” he said to the empty room. He fell out of bed and staggered to the nursery, which was unnervingly quiet save for the sound of Regis’ low voice.

“Yes, I’m sure you’re very proud of yourself,” he was saying, as Clarus rounded the door. The king was wearing a new dressing gown Clarus hadn’t seen before, midnight blue with a swirl of purple and a dusting of silver, like stars, at the back. The king’s evening wear was usually tailored to suit him, but this one was well worn, and the hem had been let out twice. 

He and Gladio were faintly illuminated by seven bright swords that hung in the air above Regis’ head like a deadly mobile. Gladio stared at them in fascination, too mesmerized to remember to be uncomfortable with the indignity of being changed.

“ _Swords,_ Regis?” Clarus asked.

“Help me with this, love,” Regis replied, without turning around. “I’m afraid to say I am being outwitted by a _child._ ”

“Well, it _is_ three in the godsdamn morning,” Clarus said, and joined him under the glowing arsenal of Regis’ armiger.

While Clarus and Regis sank into their new understanding of each other with little trepidation, navigating this into the workings of the Citadel was another matter. There _was_ a precedent—Regis’ own grandmother had a mistress who still rattled about the place, causing scandals with a practiced hand—but there would always be a bit of pushback from those who were not aware that tradition and bull-headed prejudice were not the same.

“Let them grumble,” Regis said, when Clarus brought it up. The two of them were sitting in the reception room to the left of the throne, recovering from a truly heinous bout of negotiations with Niflheim. “They haven’t had _this_ much… fun… since I decided to marry a commoner.”

“Aulea would get a kick out of _this,_ ” Clarus admitted. Regis’ smile was wan, and his hand traced idle patterns on the back of Clarus’ neck, just above the collar of his robes.

“She would,” said the king. “She used to say I might as well make you a royal consort and have done with it.” Regis fell silent, and his hand stilled on Clarus’ neck, fingers fanning out to cup the back of his head. 

“ _That’s_ an idea,” he said, at last. Clarus gave him a stern look. “Clarus, would you _like_ to make it official?”

“We’ve been living together for two months, Regis.”

“My dear, I don’t believe that applies.” Regis’ hand slipped below the collar, and sharp nails dug into his skin. Clarus sighed and leaned into it. “We’ve waded through trenches of blood for each other. Or have you forgotten, in your old age?”

Clarus looked to him. “I haven’t, and I’m not _that_ old, Reg.” Regis waited, brows raised, and Clarus' objections died on his tongue. 

“Whatever you say,” his king said at last, and ducked his head to hide a smile. 

The noble Council wasn’t the only source of discontent. Clarus kicked down dissent in the ranks of the Crownsguard easily enough, but he knew that in-fighting would inevitably occur. He hadn’t, however, expected it to culminate in two broken noses, a heavily bleeding CO, and a red-faced but stubbornly expressionless Cor Leonis being dragged into his office for an official reprimand.

“Leonis,” Clarus said, to the bloody, dirt-streaked young man at his desk. “This is unlike you. You know the penalty for striking a superior officer. The fact that I'm not sending you directly to a court-martial hearing is that I know there'd better be a _damn_ good explanation for this.”

Cor stared straight ahead, face impassive. “Yes, sir.” The cut above his eye was certainly going to leave a scar if he didn’t deal with it soon. “My hands were tied, sir. No other recourse.”

“ _Really?_ ”

Cor’s gaze fixed on a spot on the wall just above Clarus’ left shoulder.

Clarus recalled a day almost half a decade past, when Cor was a quiet, untrained sixteen-year-old on the front lines of the war. The men they were stationed with were tense and irritable, worn down by a week of rainfall and constant skirmishes with the enemy, and Clarus expected _someone_ to break, but like now, hadn’t factored in Cor. The young man was found spitting blood on the dirt before a red-faced Sergeant, who was sporting a rapidly coloring bruise on his cheek and a ripped sleeve on his uniform, while Prince Regis stood to the side with his brows raised and his lips quivering with barely withheld amusement. Cor had pulled himself to his feet and swung again, and only Clarus’ timely intervention had prevented him from becoming yet another casualty on the list of names sent home. 

“Say it again!” Cor had shouted, straining against Clarus’ grip. “Say it again, you fucking _coward!_ ”

Now, Clarus took in the stubborn set of Cor’s jaw, the blood oozing down the side of his cheek, and sighed.

“Was this to do with the arrangement between Regis and I?” he asked. Cor flinched. “Hell, Cor, we aren’t delicate flowers in need of protection.”

“No, sir. I know, sir.”

“I’ll have to place you on four weeks restricted leave while we run an investigation, and reassign you to the watch floor.”

Cor’s shoulders straightened, and he blinked away the sweat that crawled down his forehead. “Yes, sir.”

“And we’ll see you tonight for dinner at the manor.”

“Sir?”

“Seven should do it. Gladiolus is in bed by then.” He smiled at Cor’s slack-jawed expression and snapped his fingers. “Cor.”

“Y-yes. Of course. Thank you.”

“That will be all,” Clarus said, and watched Cor flee the office with more than a little amount of pride. For all that the fervency of it could cost him his upcoming promotion, it was nice to see that Cor’s unshakable loyalty had not changed.

 

\---

 

“And lo, the daemons of the treasury department did say, _Section Fifteen summarizes the collapse of the Niflheim gil since the fall of the Accordo Treaty..._ ”

“Regis!”

Regis looked up from the dossier in his hands without the slightest scrap of guilt. On his lap, a two-year-old Gladiolus laughed at the forbidding look on Clarus’ face and kicked his bare feet on the grass of Insomnia’s newest park. He’d helped Regis officially open it that morning, namely by holding a thick ribbon in his fists and trying not to look phenomenally bored, and had shed his new dress shoes immediately. 

“Please don’t ruin the afternoon with treasury reports.” Clarus unhooked the chain over his official Council robes, and ran a hand along the side of his head. “Should I grow my hair out again, do you think?”

“ _Can_ you?” Regis asked. Clarus shot him a dirty look, and Regis tossed the dossier in the air. It disappeared in a flash of blue light, lost to Regis’ armiger forever. “There,” he said. “Pleasure before business. My word as king.”

“How am I not convinced?”

“Dad!” Regis choked as Gladio yanked at his collar, using it to lever himself off of his lap. “Dad, look!”

“I can’t look if I’m dead, son,” Regis gasped, prying Gladio’s fingers loose. Clarus snorted. 

Gladio, unimpressed with royal sarcasm, started running down the slope. The source of his excitement was evident by the time the two men caught up with him—He’d seen the swings, which were currently occupied by a veritable crowd of screaming toddlers and children.

“Oh, gods,” Regis said.

“Be strong,” Clarus told him, and slapped him on the shoulder. They picked their way into the crowd, dodging small children as they forged a path to the swings.

“You know, Clarus,” Regis said, in a voice that was nearly lost in the ruction. “Gladiolus _does_ need company.”

“I suppose so,” Clarus said. They fastened Gladio to one of the swings, and Clarus sent him off with such an almighty shove that at least three parents in their vicinity gasped in horror. Gladio laughed. 

It took Clarus about two minutes to catch on. When his brain finally made the connection, he turned to see Regis watching him coolly.

“There you are,” the king said, with a smile. Clarus missed the next push, and Gladio went wobbling by with an _Uh ohhhh._

“You’re certain?” Clarus asked. Regis shrugged, and gently shoved Gladio back on course before the boy went careening into the support pole. 

“The line of Lucis _does_ need an heir,” he said. “And you know how it goes, Clarus. _One for me, one for you…_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep in mind that the sex scene? Happened when Clarus was supposed to be ON THE JOB. Poor Cor was probably waiting outside for hours like, "Huh, Clarus sure is taking his time..."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Babies. BABIES.  
> There will be a few small time-skips in this one.
> 
> Also, there's a reason I skipped the pregnancy entirely. Dysphoria doesn't happen the same way with everyone, but personally pregnancy wasn't something I could explore when I wrote this. If there are time skips or vague descriptors, that's the reason.

Cor Leonis sat outside of King Regis’ office in the royal manor, knees jutting out at an angle on a low bench next to a vase of peonies. His Crownsguard uniform was immaculately pressed, his shoes were freshly polished, and the knuckles of his left hand were scraped raw and bleeding.

At his side, Gladiolus Amicitia-Caelum swung his feet over the edge of the bench and whistled tunelessly.

It wasn’t that Cor _sought out_ trouble. He _tried_ to work on his temper. It was easier when they were all together—Cor, Clarus, Weskham, and Cid, the four of them working in tandem to support their king. Clarus was a wall of muscle with the mind of a diplomat, Weskham could rearrange players in a fight with the efficiency of a puppet-master, and Cid knew how to de-escalate the nastiest situation. All Cor had was a tendency to forget how to stay down when he’d been beaten. Cid could always talk him down, back in Leide, but he’d parted ways with Regis years ago. Weskham, whose door was usually open when Cor needed him, was off in Altissia, and Clarus was... Well, Clarus was always a little intimidating. 

So when the news got around that King Regis wasn’t using a surrogate to carry his heir, the insidious _comments_ began to creep through the cracks of the Crownsguard barracks again. Cor had tried to handle it the way Weskham used to—Moving subordinates around, slyly discouraging forward promotion of those whose loyalties were not absolute—but eventually, Cor’s patience ran out. His left hook had never let him down before, even _if_ his acerbic tongue did him no favors.

He sighed and rubbed a thumb over his knuckles, pressing down on the angry red tissue.

“Are you grounded, too?” Gladio asked. He handed Cor a small, stuffed moogle toy, and Cor held it awkwardly in both hands. 

“I… Yes,” he said, at last. “You could say that.”

“That bites.” The three-year-old kicked his heels against the bench, sighed loudly, glanced at Cor sidelong, sighed again, and kicked once more for emphasis. When Cor just stared, Gladio rolled his wide amber eyes and waved a hand at the door.

“What’d you _do?_ ” he asked. 

“Oh.” Cor wondered how he could phrase this without leading his monarch’s adopted child down a path of deviance. “Well, someone insulted… a friend… and I _may_ have struck him on the jaw.”

“Wow.” Gladio looked genuinely impressed. “Is your friend ok?”

“I don’t think he can ever _not_ be ok, honestly.” 

“That’s good.” Gladio scooted closer to Cor, and whispered, “I got mad and threw the baby stuff out the window.”

“Probably not the best plan,” Cor admitted, and the boy nodded. 

The door swung open.

“Captain Leonis.” Regis’ voice was low, with the faint musical quality that Cor recognized as the king at his most vindictive. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t have you sent in _chains_ to an etiquette academy for delinquent _children_.”

“Good luck,” Gladio whispered. Cor ruffled Gladio’s hair, straightened his shoulders, and marched in to the office. 

It wasn’t until halfway through what turned out to be the most thoroughly humiliating lecture of his life that Cor realized he was still holding the toy moogle.

 

\---

 

“I know what I will do,” Regis said that night, as he and Clarus shared a brief moment of peace in their rooms. Gladio was finally asleep, having been sent to his room in disgrace, and despite the even tread of guards outside, the manor was almost _quiet_ again. Regis hurried to fill it. “I’m going to muzzle Cor and tie him to the gates of the Citadel as a warning to others.”

“Regis, no.” Clarus shifted under his hands, turning to give him a baleful look. “Imagine what the neighbors will say.”

Regis smirked and pressed his hand to Clarus’ mouth—His lover’s lips parted, and he lazily slipped two fingers along the length of his tongue, fucking him slowly. “Honestly. It makes me wonder what I’ve done to inspire such a selfless brand of loyalty. It’s a job and a half to keep up with you all.”

Clarus made a muffled sound of protest, but Regis only reached between them, turning what could have been coherent words into a strangled moan. 

“Dad?” 

Regis cursed and pulled back.

“Hey, buddy,” Clarus called, only sounding a _little_ hopelessly wrecked. “I know that’s not you outside the door, because you’re in _bed_ where you’re _supposed_ to be.”

There was a long pause. “Can I come in?”

Both men started searching for their discarded nightclothes. Regis’ briefs were lost in the void somewhere, but Clarus jumped up before he could ease himself out of bed to find new ones. 

“I’m not an invalid,” he whispered, and Clarus shrugged in silent apology. 

When they were dressed enough to count as vaguely decent, Clarus opened the door and picked up the forlorn-looking boy in the hall. 

“I think we’ve found a wastrel,” he told Regis, who was struggling to find a comfortable position in the literal mountain of pillows he kept piled up on his side of the bed. “What’s that look for, Gladdy?”

“When Noctis is born…” Gladio made an _oof_ sound as he was deposited next to Regis. “Am I gonna have to share a room?”

“No,” Regis said, shortly. “There are twelve bedrooms in this house alone, Gladiolus.”

Gladio seemed to think about this for a minute. Clarus settled down on the other side, noting without comment that Regis had left him with one pillow and an ornamental cushion for the night. 

“If we have to, though,” Gladio said, with the slow deliberation of one about to make the greatest sacrifice of his life, “That’s okay.”

Regis’ lips twitched convulsively. 

“That’s very good of you to say, Gladio,” Clarus said, in the same somber tone as his son. 

“But he’s not takin’ Lambie,” the boy said quickly, and Regis had to cover his face in both hands. His shoulders shook with silent laughter, and Clarus rubbed them absently. “Daddy, what’s up with Dad?”

“Dad’s just very happy that you’re being so mature,” Clarus said. Regis suppressed a snort.

“Oh.” Gladio brightened. “So am I still grounde—“

Regis dropped his hands. “Yes.” Gladio mumbled under his breath, and Regis composed himself in time to look stern. 

“You can stay with us tonight if you want,” Clarus said, and Gladio immediately made himself comfortable, grabbing the last real pillow from behind Clarus’ back. Clarus pointedly jammed the useless embroidered cushion behind his back with a look of disgust.

“So generous of you, love,” Regis choked, and laughed until he cried.

 

\---

 

Seven months later, the king and his Shield woke to the sound of insistent wailing.

“Tell me again,” King Regis said, in a broken voice, “why I thought this would be a good idea.”

“Gladio can’t wear the ring,” Clarus mumbled. “And you love me.”

“A wellspring which will soon run dry if you don’t retrieve our _son,_ Clarus.” 

Clarus blindly reached for Prince Noctis’ crib. It was specially-made to fit to the side of their bed, and came adorned with chocobo lights that flashed daemonically in the moonlit dark of their bedchamber.

“Come on, little prince,” he said, lifting the screaming three-month-old out of the comfort of his crib. Noctis let out something between a shriek and a sob, and balled his fists with wordless rage.

“Give him to me,” Regis said, and Clarus passed the prince into his arms. “What is it you want, Noctis?” he asked. “Give us your demands. I’m willing to negotiate.”

“Sounds like he’s hungry,” Clarus said. 

“Gods, he’s always hungry.” Regis sat up, and as he groggily adjusted Noctis in his hold, yawned so wide that his jaw popped.

“Wrong way, dear,” said Clarus, helpfully. He lifted Noctis and turned him around. Regis winced as what felt like the fiftieth feeding of the night began, and leaned back against the headboard. When he turned to Clarus, he had the look of a man sleepwalking. 

“This is all I’m good for, now,” he drawled. “The man you love is gone, Clarus. I’m a walking milk receptacle.”

“ _That’s_ an image,” Clarus said. He leaned over and kissed him on the temple. “I’ll tell the Council tomorrow. I’m sure your funeral will be impressive.”

“Oh, what a wit.” Regis grimaced. “Astrals, what have we created, a wolf-child?”

“It’s one tooth,” Clarus mumbled, and started sinking back into the sheets. Regis kicked him in the side. 

“No you don’t, my love. I don’t sleep, you don’t sleep.”

Clarus groaned expressively and rolled onto his stomach, wrapping an arm around Regis’ legs. The king glanced down at him dourly, but when he shifted, Clarus simply tightened his grip and buried his face in his thigh. 

“Dad?”

Clarus’ groan rose an octave. Regis looked up to see Gladio standing in the doorway, holding Noctis’ fox plush in one hand. “Gladiolus, it’s too late to be out of bed.”

“Is he okay?” Gladio asked. “Noct.”

“He’s fine, son,” Clarus said, rolling onto his back again. “Go back to bed.”

Gladio stood there a moment longer, holding onto the doorframe. “I wanna make sure,” he said. 

Clarus sighed. “Come on, then.” Gladio scrambled up the side of the bed, using his father’s arm as leverage, and landed with a _flump_ that made one of the bedsprings pop. He scooted between them, and somberly handed the fox plush to the king. 

“That’s very thoughtful, son,” Regis said. He placed the toy on his lap, and Gladio curled up at his side. 

Regis nodded off with Noctis sprawled on his shoulder, and Clarus quietly shifted them so that they lay at a more comfortable angle. He moved Gladiolus to his right—The boy _kicked,_ and he was too close to Noctis—and arranged himself in the middle. He finally settled with his hand in Regis’ hair on one side, Gladio tucked up under his arm at the other, and let the welcome darkness of exhaustion take him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only reason Cor hasn't been booted out of the Crownsguard yet is because he's friends with Regis and Clarus. They just keep reassigning him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I got a bit burned out recently, so updates are slower than usual.

Noctis Lucis Caelum was dead. Noctis was dead, and his brother and his dads and his baby sister were going to go to his grave every year and look down at it mournfully, shaking their heads in sorrow. _If only,_ Gladio would cry, flinging himself bodily upon the stone, his shoulders racked with sobs, _I hadn’t dared my wonderful, perfect brother to throw a rock at the upper story window! Oh, I’d give up all of my comic books and collectible action figures just to have him back!_

But no, it was too late, now. Noctis was a dead boy walking, and he and Gladiolus _knew_ it.

“Okay,” Gladio said, as Noct paced the attic with the frenzied despair that only a seven-year-old prince could manage. “Okay, I got this. I’ll say that _I_ threw the rock, and you, uh, you tried to _stop_ it with your ice magic, which is why the window’s all ice now, and, and…”

“I’m doomed!” Noct cried. “Now Dad’s gonna kill me, and Iris is gonna be _Queen,_ and she’s just a _kid!_ ”

Gladiolus sighed. “Noct, I’m tryin’ to come up with a solution, here.”

“There _is_ no solution. Dad’s gonna see this, and it’s not like Daddy’s gonna stop him from grounding me until I _die._ He’s the _king,_ Gladdy. The king!” He flung himself onto a moth-eaten ottoman and rolled onto his stomach, moaning softly. 

“Right,” Gladio said. “Okay.”

Gladio looked down at the source of Prince Noctis’ despair. The portrait of King Regis’ great-great-grandmother, one of the foremost warriors and academics of the modern age, which had been painted by an artist who headed one of Lucis’ great renaissances, was currently dripping oil as the ice from Noct’s spell began to melt. Already, the old queen’s face resembled something more like a flan than an actual person, and one corner of the painting cracked altogether and fell when Gladio nudged it.

He looked at his brother, swooning dramatically, and bit his lip.

“You’re bad at lying,” he said, at last. “But I’m not. I’ll say it’s my fault. I dared you to throw it, after all. It’s not your fault the window broke, and I mean, I did say it would be neat if you used your magic to push it higher.”

Noct swung his tearstained face to Gladio’s.

“No way. Then Dad’ll kill _you,_ and I don’t. I don’t want you to be grounded forever.”

Oh, gods, he was _crying._ Gladio ran to his brother and pulled him off the ottoman, hugging him tight. “Come on, Noct,” he said. “Remember when I got grounded last time? It was no big deal.”

“He took your _comics_ away,” Noct whimpered. Gladio frowned. His brother _did_ have a point.

“Look, I have an idea,” he told him. It was a half-formed, tentative idea, but it was better than nothing. “He never looks here, does he? Not really. So what if we _hid_ the painting?”

Noct gave his brother a dubious look. “Hide it where?”

“Um. What about your armiger? Where you keep your toy sword? You can keep other stuff in there, right?”

There was a long, thoughtful silence at this, and Noctis scrubbed at his face with his wrist. 

“Yeah,” he said, in a wobbly voice. “Yeah, I think I can.”

Really, Gladio realized, when it had all gone sideways weeks later, he should have known better.

What started out as just the painting turned into the painting and a broken cup from the dining room. Then there was the incident with Iris’ stuffed giraffe, which ripped in half when Gladio and Noct were playing with toy swords in the empty nursery. _Then_ there was Jared’s favorite tie, and the cushion off one of the dining chairs, and the book that Noct dropped into a puddle, and—

But still, they had it under control. Definitely.

“If I didn’t know any better, Clarus, I swear we have imps,” King Regis said one evening, as they all collapsed in the living room after dinner. Regis had just finished reading Iris a story about a talking cat who solved mysteries (her third favorite to the one about a talking cat who saved princes, and the one about a talking cat who taught _other_ cats to talk), and Gladio and Noctis were doing their homework on the carpet. Clarus, who had his feet propped up on the arm of the couch while he read through a hilariously inaccurate book detailing Regis and his retinue’s time at war, stuck a piece of cloth between the pages and looked up.

“Sorry, dear. I was just at the point where you and Weskham declared your love for each other.”

Gladio snickered. 

“I’m talking about the strange way things seem to keep going _missing_ around here of late,” Regis said. He jiggled his leg, and Iris giggled and squeaked _Da! Da I’m gonna fall!_ He grabbed her before she could topple to the floor, and she snuggled up to his chest. “It was your father’s sword-cane, this time.”

Noct and Gladio gave each other wary glances. 

“Mm. Can’t be the servants,” Clarus said. “Jared wouldn’t steal from us, surely.”

Regis sighed loudly. “I’m afraid it’s the only answer, love. No one _else_ could have the chance to do this.”

“What’s…” Noct swallowed when both of his fathers turned to stare at him. “What’ll happen if it _is_ him?”

“Oh, well,” Regis said, airily. “He’ll lose his job. And his daughter is due to have her first child soon, and with the medical bills…”

“Ah, I see,” Clarus said. 

“See what?” asked Gladio. “What’s going on? What’s that look for?”

“It’s just that he’ll have to sell his house, won’t he?” Clarus said. “I suppose he’s resourceful enough to live off the street on his own for a while, but that’s what happens when you steal from your employer…”

There was a long, dreadful pause as both boys lay under the terrible weight of their crime.

“Um.” Noct said.

“Noct, no,” Gladio hissed.

Regis smiled benevolently. “What is it, son?”

Noct took a deep breath and rolled to his feet, math homework forgotten. “I have a, a confession.”

His fathers’ expressions did not change. Noct fiddled with the hem of his shirt, twisting it in his hands. “Um. Maybe it’s better if I show you.”

“Noct, wait—“

Gladio lunged towards his brother, but he was too slow to stop Noctis from summoning every item either of the boys had endeavored to hide, burying the two of them in a massive pile that nearly engulfed them.

Regis took one long, steady look, set Iris down on the floor, and walked into his receiving room. The door clicked shut. 

“Boys,” Clarus said, as Regis’ full-throated laughter echoed through the first floor of the manor. “You know what this means.”

“Yeah,” Noct said glumly, from beneath one of Regis’ soda-stained sweaters. “We’re _dead._ ”

 

\---

 

Noctis sighed deeply for the fifteenth time that hour, lost in the hopes that one of his dads could psychically recognize the deep and eternal regret he felt and free him from his room before his two weeks of restriction were up. Sadly, he had a feeling this wasn’t going to be the case, so he turned his gaze back to the book on his desk.

 _Class Relations And You,_ said the title, in cheery, blocky gold font. _Or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Unpack Institutionalized Class Privilege!_

He looked at the empty notebook to the right of the book, sighed once more just in case, and picked up his pen.

_BZZT. Eagle to Nighthawk. Eagle to Nighthawk. Over._

Noct jumped up and ran across his room, stumbling over old clothes and discarded school books. All of his comic books, toys, and video games were gone, leaving his room looking like one of the old, unused guest suites more than something belonging to an actual _kid._ But Clarus had failed to confiscate _one_ item from Noct’s room, and seemingly from Gladio’s, too. Noct grabbed his handheld radio and pressed a button.

“Nighthawk to Eagle,” he said. “Respond, Eagle. Over.”

There was a hiss of static. _You doin’ okay, Nighthawk? Dad’s makin’ me read about classes or something. Boring stuff. Over._

“Me, too,” Noct said. “I think he’s trying to torture us.” He waited, and hurriedly pressed the button and said. “Over.”

_Yeah, and tomorrow Daddy’s having us do training again. Not like I don’t mind, but I think we’re cleanin’ the Crownsguard storage rooms like last time. Over._

“Gross! Over.”

Noct smiled and set the radio down next to his desk, where he dutifully started to copy out the book his father had given him word for word. After two pages, there was a buzz from the radio, and then a sudden silence. He looked at it curiously and pressed the _talk_ button.

“Eagle? Pick up, Eagle?”

More silence. Noct shrugged and set the radio down again, then jumped when it crackled to life.

 _You forgot to say Over, Nighthawk,_ said the low, far too amused voice of King Regis. _Over._

“We’ve been compromised!” Noct shouted, hoping it reached the other side of the wall where Gladio’s room was. He threw his hands in the air in a plea to the gods for mercy against too-clever fathers, and plopped his head facefirst into the open book before him, a picture of defeat.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the Marilith attack, Regis falls to pieces, and Clarus tries to pick them up again.

A fluorescent light flickered erratically over a small, plastic potted plant that curled with leaves of light green fabric. Footsteps clacked down the hall outside: Heels, then flats, flats again, the groan of a gurney, heels. One of the assistants behind the counter was listening to music on their phone, something tinny and high, and the ceiling hummed and roared and rattled over the plunking tones of what was meant to be a calming soundtrack. Everything smelled of flesh, scrubbed raw and doused with a citrus cleaning agent that stung the eyes.

A hospital. King Regis was familiar with hospitals. 

He was aware, in the same way that a giant was aware of a beetle scuttling underfoot, that a nurse was trying to speak to him. He picked up scattered words above the din: _Nerve damage, physical therapy, rods in the spine._ Yes, he nodded. Yes, he understood. He accepted a paper from them, and large, worn hands pulled it from his grasp.

Someone said _Thank you, we'll review our options._ That sounded like an acceptable plan. Regis turned to the man at his side, the man who spoke, and he was _there,_ there was blood on his hands and his hands on the hilt of a sword and that gods- _damned_ daemon melting into the undergrowth while his _son, gods,_ where was his _son—_

A hand pressed on his shoulder. He turned away.

"Draw in the magic, love." Regis forced himself to be present, to focus all of his thoughts on the warmth of the hand—Clarus, _Clarus'_ hand. Ah. Yes, he _had_ let his magic slip away. It altered the taste of the room, bringing to mind the thin air of a high mountain, of fresh water. He pulled it back in, letting it settle under his skin and stay there, coiled, ready for release.

"I'm right here," Clarus said. 

"Yes," Regis told him. "I know." 

 

\---

 

Prince Noctis slept through the surgery on his spine. He slept through the plate being attached to his hip, the rods keeping his bones in place while the effects of restorative injections tried to do the work that nature couldn't. Regis smiled faintly when the doctors told him that Noctis was well enough to be moved, and that he would most likely be nauseous and disoriented when he woke up on the trip back to Insomnia. 

Regis held his son in his arms, ignoring the tremor he could already feel in his right leg, and carried him to the car. 

The drive to Insomnia took four hours. Noctis did not wake.

Clarus had to remind him to draw in the power of the ring three times on their way through the city. Each time the magic fell from Regis' firm control, he felt it pulsing against him, as though he were trapped in the wire of an instrument, the pillar of a building nearing collapse. He hadn't felt this pressure since his father's death, when he'd slipped on the ring for the first time and had stood before his ancestors, the ancient kings and queens of Lucis. _King Regis Lucis Caelum,_ they'd called him, and Regis, young and barely able to contain the magic that roared through his veins, had snapped his fingers at the portrait of his father and startled his steward into laughter. _King_ Regis. It was the only time his ancestors had spoken to him directly, but it had been enough.

Now, as he hefted his sleeping son in his arms and stepped out of the Regalia at the foot of the Citadel, he looked up past the Old Wall of Lucis and heard their call once more. 

"Clarus," he said. "Bring Noctis home." Noctis made a soft sound as he was passed from one father's arms to another, but did not stir into true wakefulness. Clarus stroked his hair, whispering his name, trying to call him out, but Regis let them both slip from his mind as he ascended the high stairs to the Citadel. He disappeared into the dark of its winding passages, drawn by the pulse of the ring and the whisper of the old kings and queens, and made his way to the heart of the Spire, where the crystal waited for him.

 

\---

 

Clarus found the king in the nursery six hours later. Regis had forgotten to take off his shoes at the foyer, his shoulders were hunched under his cloak of office, and he was twisting the ring of the Lucii in his fingers. He dragged it up to the knuckle and back, and hooked a nail into the clasp that held a shard of the crystal, the source of his ancestral power. Magic hung in the air about him like a heavy curtain, and Clarus’ breath stung going down as he passed the threshold. 

“Regis,” he said. “Look at me.”

The sound of Regis’ breath was harsh in the silence of the manor. He leaned further on his elbows, folding into a slow collapse from the neck down. Clarus sank to the floor at his knees, and pressed large hands to the king’s bony shoulders. Regis clutched at his lover’s arms, and Clarus could _feel_ the ring, a buzzing hiss of magic on his skin. 

“He’ll be _fine,_ Regis,” he said, and was cut off by the pain of the other man’s nails digging into his arms. "He's only sleeping."

“Listen to me,” the king said. “I spoke to the Crystal.”

“Why would you—“

Regis’ voice sounded far past the point of breaking. “How can I _tell_ you if you won’t—“

“I’m sorry,” Clarus said. Regis had never been so far gone before, not even after Aulea had passed. “I’m sorry, Reg. Go on.” He pulled at Regis’ arms, and the king slithered to the floor without resistance. 

“Excuse me,” he said. “I need a moment.” 

Regis stayed as he was for several minutes, hands to Clarus’ neck, head bowed. Slowly, the feeling of magic in the room began to fade, centralizing on the ring for a moment before passing from Clarus’ awareness altogether. 

When Regis finally straightened, it was a terrible sight. 

“How are Gladio and Iris?” he asked. He was perfectly composed again, save for the mussed state of his hair and his sloping cape. His shoulders were straight, his face clean of emotion, but something burned behind his eyes that spoke of ruin.

“Regis,” Clarus said. " _Please._ "

King Regis held the side of Clarus' face in a hand that glowed white with the power of the ring, pressed dry lips to his ear, and told him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of my hospital experiences are as a patient! I had so. many. surgeries. as a kid. Blah.


	7. Chapter 7

Noctis woke just as the bite of winter ceded to the deceptive chill of spring. The grass in the yards beyond the manor started to blush a light, greying green. Gardeners bustled about, trying to create the illusion of summer blooms in the gardens and windowboxes. Iris learned how to ride a bicycle and crashed into two beds of tulips, an unsuspecting guard dog, three enlisted Crownsguard and one bedraggled, weather-worn Cor, who appeared one morning on the back of his unpaid administrative leave with a limp and a trick elbow. 

"I found a man in the garden!" Iris cried, as he appeared at the door, princess held in his arms like a shield against Regis and Clarus' wrath. 

"I thought you were off on a _quest,_ " Clarus had said, lifting his daughter into his arms. Cor shrugged, but offered no answer. He was quiet and subdued when he was led into the house to see the king, who was sitting next to Noctis in his wide bed with a book of tales about a fisherman who hooked an Astral, running his hand through his son's dark hair. Noctis looked up at Cor and narrowed his eyes.

"Mr. Leonis?"

"Your Highness," Cor said. "I'm glad to see you've recovered." Noct rolled his eyes and jerked his head to a wheelchair, then looked to Regis. "Your Majesty."

"I'm sure I've told you before," the king said, "but we don't use titles here. Sit down, Cor, you look like hell."

"Likewise, Regis."

The king gave him a stern look. "I note that you say this _before_ you are to be re-enlisted," he said. Cor laughed, and for a brief moment, the world righted itself again.

A few days later, Gladio stopped his fathers on their way to bed. He stood before them in his dark sweatpants and one of Clarus' oversized t-shirts, holding his hands behind his back as though he were a soldier at parade-rest. Clarus smiled at the image this made before all peace was dashed with the words that tumbled from his son's lips in a mighty rush.

"I want to be Noct's Shield."

Regis and Clarus stared at him. Gladiolus stared back, defiant.

“Gladio,” Regis said, adopting the tone he used in official meetings. “As a prince of Lucis, there are many options available to you—Decisions like these are not to be made lightly.”

“I know,” said Gladio. “I’m proud of it, of being your son. I always will be.” He looked to Clarus, and shifted his stance slightly. “But I’m also an Amicitia. I come from a line of Shields who have served the kings and queens of Lucis since the beginning. And I’m proud of _that,_ too. And I want to… I want to make _them_ proud. When Noct is king, I want to know that I’ve done everything I can to get him there.” 

In the silence that followed, King Regis stepped forward. Gladio was already tall for a twelve-year-old, coming up to Regis’ shoulder, and years of sparring with Clarus in the backyard had toughened him, but he still had the rounded face and chubby arms of a child. When Regis looked into his eyes, he saw a steely resolve there that matched his own.

“You are a credit to both of us, Gladiolus,” he told him, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “But before you make this choice, you must know the extent of what you are asking to do. What you must become… and what _Noctis_ is to become.”

 

Two hours later, Regis, Clarus, and Gladio sat in Clarus’ private study, regarding one another in perfect silence. Gladio had been remarkably calm during their talk—Clarus had been the one to detail what the crystal had told the king, and what Noctis would need to overcome as the chosen hero of the Light. For a moment, he had hesitated to tell the worst truth, the greatest truth, but Gladio had looked down at his hands and asked:

“When he’s gone to the other side to kill the Accursed, is he coming back?”

“No,” Regis said. It was the first word he’d spoken since their talk had begun.

Gladio’s breath came out in a shudder. 

“The crystal’s visions aren’t always absolute,” Clarus said. “But this follows the prophecy.”

“Will you tell him?” Gladio asked. 

“When he’s ready,” said Regis. Gladio nodded. 

“He isn’t yet. He’s just a kid.” Gladio clenched his hands on his knees. “Then I _have_ to be his Shield. No one else is gonna know what it’s like, or how to talk to him, or how to tell if he’s about to go off and do something he shouldn’t ‘cause he’s scared and angry. I’ve been looking after Noct all my life. And I’m gonna _keep_ doing it.”

Regis closed his eyes.

"Very well," Clarus said, when the silence in the room had become almost too much for Gladio to bear. "We can start your training... On a trial. In two years' time, we'll see if this is still something you want. The two of us will need to speak privately, as well. There is much more to being a Shield than what you've been told so far."

"I know," Gladio said, but the look in his fathers' eyes told him that maybe he didn't, not yet. He rose at the unspoken dismissal there, and made his way to the door.

Gladio stepped out of the study with the giddy confidence of a man in control of his own destiny, and made it ten paces down the hall before he heard it. A gasp, the rattle of frames against the wall, a low vibration in the floorboards. He inched back, careful to place his feet on the spots in the floor that were not liable to creak, and pressed his cheek to the wall.

“Nothing is set in stone.” A scuff of feet on the carpet, a hiss of breath. 

“Gods, Clarus,” the king’s voice was lighter than Gladio had heard it before, and he felt a cold thrill of fear pour through him, almost as fierce as the one he’d felt when Jared had given him and Iris the news of the Marilith attack.

He held his breath and pushed away from the wall. This was wrong—He should have kept walking. It was strange how the news of his brother’s fate had only strengthened his determination, but the sound of his parents, the men who always stood so tall and proud against whatever the world sent their way, speaking with such _hurt_ in their voices made him waver. 

No. He couldn’t back down, not now. His dad, Regis—He knew the burden of being a king, but he didn’t know what it was like to be an Amicitia. Shields existed to guide, to _protect,_ and Gladio was going to make sure that, crystal or no crystal, Noctis would come back from his destined path whole and unbroken.


	8. Chapter 8

Regis and Noctis had only been back in the city for a week, and it was already obvious that a sea change had occurred in the young prince.

"I'm hardly saying that he should go _back_ to sneaking out of the Citadel at all hours," Regis said, as he lay under Clarus with his legs hooked lazily around the other man's thighs. "I just... He was so quick to _laugh_ before. The reason I wanted to wait to tell him the truth was to let him have a _childhood,_ but now all he does is read and sigh."

"It's been a rough year," Clarus told him. He knew better than to suggest that they shelve this conversation until they were no longer half-clothed and coming down from a rare and precious high. Regis became far too chatty when he wasn't being single-minded as a laser, and he was usually so reserved that it did no one any favors to stop him now. 

"The Scientia boy nearly _lectured_ me today," Regis said. "Have you ever been lectured by a thirteen-year-old before? It was a sobering experience." 

"I say this with love, Reg," Clarus said, kissing him briefly for emphasis. "But I saw you lose a battle of wits with Noctis when he was five."

"Oh?" Regis brushed his Shield's chin with his fingers. Clarus obediently bared his neck for him, and he murmured low against the skin below his ear. "Really? And who let Iris adopt a crow for all of three months, hm? Who was that?" He dragged Clarus down, and they both laughed as he was summarily crushed under the weight of the larger man. "You remember, don't you, Clarus? The bird that perched in the corner of Noct's room and wouldn't go away? The reason he won't go to that horrible little diner anymore? Mm? Clarus? _Clarus?_ "

"Regis, your leg, I'll..."

"Damn my leg, I love you. You filthy hypocrite." He held Clarus' face in both hands and kissed him deeply. "Soft-hearted fool." He kissed his cheek. "Ardent little sl--"

Both men jumped at the knock on the door. Clarus accidentally knocked his knee into Regis' pelvis, making the man beneath him grit his teeth and dig sharp nails into Clarus' neck. 

"Iris, back to bed," they chorused. 

The door eased open, and Clarus hurriedly rolled off of the king. Noctis stood there, leaning against the doorframe and panting for breath. His legs were shaking, and he was clutching his side as though he were trying to hold himself up by the middle. Regis frowned and struggled to rise, but Clarus beat him to it, slipping out of bed and onto the soft carpet.

"Noctis, your chair," he said. 

"I can walk on my _own,_ " Noct insisted. His fathers exchanged a knowing look, and Clarus made his way to the stubborn ten-year-old, crouching down a little to meet his gaze. 

"Let me help you back to your room," he started, but Noct reached out and grabbed his arm, and the look in his eyes reminded Clarus of the haunted, half-dreamy cast of old soldiers waking up from the war, of young Cor after his first battle. "Noct?"

"I know I'm being a _baby,_ " Noct said, in a voice so quiet it was almost a whisper. "But I can't stop thinking about. About Luna, and the Queen, and that _man_ in the armor Dad was fighting..."

Clarus placed a large hand over his son's. "Do you want to stay with us tonight?" he asked, careful to keep his voice calm and slow. The prince closed his eyes and nodded, in a gesture so like his royal father that it would have almost been amusing in another circumstance. Clarus nodded back and swept the boy up in his arms.

"Dad, no!"

"When you eat your vegetables for once and do a little growing, I won't be able to do this anymore," Clarus informed his son, ignoring the way he squirmed in his grip. "Behold, my king. I give to you a prince."

Regis sighed and scooted over on the bed, readjusting the covers. Noct let out an indignant squeak when he was dropped onto the mattress, and sheepishly kicked his way under the sheets. 

"It's not 'cause I'm scared, though," he said. Regis raised an eyebrow, and Noct flushed pink. " _Don't tell Gladio._ "

"I wouldn't dare, son," Regis told him, and pushed back his bangs to kiss him on the forehead. Clarus tossed Noct a pillow, and the boy yanked most of the sheets towards himself, leaving his fathers with the trailing ends. 

"Don't worry, Noctis," Clarus said, as he blew out the bedside lamp. "You're safe with us."

"Thanks, Dad. I know."

 

\---

 

"Run for it, Noctis!"

"Gladiolus Amicitia-Caelum!"

"Oh, hell, Dad."

Twelve-year-old Noctis Lucis Caelum clung to the bricks of the chimney, staring down the dark, immovable gaze of his father with the singular terror of a boy on the edge of a precipice. "Uh," he said, eloquently. "Uh, Dad. I didn't... I didn't mean to..."

King Regis stared at him cooly, and Noctis risked a shivery smile. "I guess I'm... going to the ball after all?"

"In _chains,_ " Regis said, and Noct let out a short cry of horror and ducked behind the other side of the chimney. Regis sighed and snapped his fingers. When the roof remained empty of doomed and disobedient princes, he snapped his fingers a second time. 

Noctis slowly edged his way into view. 

"How grounded am I?" he asked, in a small voice.

"Have you ever heard of Solheim?" Regis asked. Noct shook his head. "Exactly. You're _that_ grounded." Noct groaned in despair, but shuffled forward anyways, face blushing a deep red as his sister, brother, and other father burst into enthusiastic applause at his reappearance. 

Regis held out a hand. "Easy, son," he said. "Just summon your sword and warp back to the lawn."

Noct paled, and suddenly, his reluctance to come down from the roof fell into sharp focus. Regis struggled to maintain his stern expression, but couldn't help the quirk of a half-smile in the dark. "Well?" he asked. Noct took a deep breath.

"I don't know if I can..." he glanced down at the distant grass below, and blinked rapidly. "I'm still really new to warping, and it's... It's a long way down, Dad."

"Hurry up, Noct!" Gladio shouted. "I got a hot date at this thing!"

" _Excuse me?_ " Regis and Clarus asked at once, and Gladio took a long step back, mumbling inaudibly. Regis turned to Noct and waved him closer. Noct bit his lip and inched into Regis' hold.

"There, Noctis," Regis said, well aware that Clarus was going to give him at least an hour's lecture for this. "I have you." He grabbed the boy by the waist and heaved him up. Pointedly ignoring the _screaming_ pain in his back and legs as Noct wrapped his arms around his neck, Regis yanked his blade out of the window frame and flung it to the ground. They fell into a standing warp to meet it, appearing in a flash of blue light that made the others blink and stagger. 

For a moment, father and son stood in the center of the lawn, Regis holding Noct in a strong, steady grip. Then his knees gave, and Regis collapsed. The rest of his family converged on him: Iris hugging him around the shoulders, Gladio dragging Noct out of his hold, and Clarus, leaning down to kiss him slow and soft.

"Don't forget," he said, as Regis smiled against his lips. "This was all your idea in the first place."

"Enabler," Regis whispered, and pulled him down to his knees in the grass, laughing as Clarus fell into his lover's arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then everyone lived forever, except for Ardyn, who didn't.
> 
> Thanks for reading, everyone! I appreciate all the comments and support, am sincerely sorry for the deep angst of the two chapters before this, and thank you so, so much for everything!


End file.
